To Deserve You
by Yvetal
Summary: A collection of Sandor-POV chapters, which I omitted from Fair Pay for Fair Work as I didn't think they fit. Not in any particular order. Sandor x OFC
1. Her

He hissed as he jerked his boots off, flexing his toes after a day stuffed into the unyielding leather. They sailed across the room, hitting the wall with two distinct _thumps_. The studded leather jerkin followed, skidding to a halt just few a inches apart. Underneath, his cream shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, a ripe smell rising to his nose. Peeling it away, he simply dropped it at his aching feet. Let the washer worry about that.

Eyeing the jug gently steaming by his washstand, he knew he should pour it before it went cold. Knew he needed a scrubbing. Ought to rinse his pits and feet at least. Sighing heavily at the thought of further movement, he stretched, rolling his shoulders and turning his neck, fully aware of every creak and crack of his body.

 _Fuck it_. Thrusting himself up and away from the inviting softness of his mattress, he found his way to the jug and filled his basin. She had given him this soap; a fact he recalled at least twice a day, turning the orange-brown bar over in his hand. He had laughed when she said she made it herself, but the longer he looked at it… the sides were uneven, cut in a careless manner that was purely _her_. After all, what did it matter what a lump of soap looked like?

He had heard her say it a dozen times: _It gets the fucking job done, don't it!_

In spite of its appearance, the smell… He lifted it to his face for the hundredth time. Some spice, some sweetness; not overpowering. Had she crafted it with him in mind?

 _Quit simpering, you daft old dog._

Still, the first time he had used it, she'd buried her face into his neck, breathing him in. Her hums of delight echoed in his ears as he scrubbed at his arms, willing the stink away. She would be here soon, and the thought of her wrinkling her nose at a mere whiff of him drove him to using the soap and brush until his skin was red raw. He even washed his feet.

Last of all was his marred face, and he scowled at himself in the mirror as he lathered his horrendous left side, aware of every lump and crevice, delving firm lines between his brows with the ferocity of his own stare. There were lines growing on either side of his mouth recently, too, but he fancied they stood somewhere between scowling and smiling. Even there, by his good eye, she had sown little threads of laughter.

A soft tap came at the door. Like clockwork. The day ends and she appears, elbowing the door open and striding into the room without invitation. After all, they both know she belongs here. The look she gives him as she sets the tray on the table confirms that; appraising, approving and just a little _possessive_. His blood heats, but he polices his features to express only mild interest. He does not yet know what she wants, or how she feels. He hardly has words for how he feels…

Or rather, he has but one, and it strikes a cord of panic in his heart.

"Evening." Her voice, gentle low, with that edge of confidence that first drew his attention. One side of her mouth quirks up in a way that signals improper thoughts, and her gaze roves over him once more.

He tilts his head, letting only part of a smile cross his face. An invitation. As usual, there is a certain coyness in her first step, like she still expects him to meet her with the same disdain he might show anyone else. That cheeky grin spreads further with each step, until she is level with his chest, at which point she grins, pink little rosebud of a mouth parting to reveal straight white teeth, cheeks forming two perfect dimples. Her arms slid around his waist, squeezing him fondly as she rests her forehead against his chest.

Just like that, everything is her. Her arms, her warmth, her soft curves, the little sigh she lets out as she relaxes in his embrace, and the faint aroma of roses. Silently, he removes the pins from her hair, loosening and arranging her red locks until they spill down her back, almost to her waist. Her kisses flutter across his breast, fingertips tracing the lines of his back and stomach, drawing across his ribs, where she know he's ticklish. He jerks them away to the melody of her giggles.

"Do that again and I'll…" He pauses just a moment too long in finishing his threat, and those big blue eyes turn upward, narrowing at the prospect of a challenge.

"You'll _what_?" She purrs.

At first, her teasing had frustrated him. Not to the point of anger, for she was careful with her words and never caused him much offence, but he used to work his brain into knots trying to understand her meaning. Now he knew it was part of this game for her. She liked to test his... _imagination_.

Gathering her hands behind her back, he enclosed her wrists in one of his massive hands. She resisted; just a little. He knew how slippery she could be when she wanted. She had escaped him more times than he cared to admit.

To his dismay, he found the ties of her gown to be more complicated than he'd judged, and was quickly subjected to her superior snigger.

"Oh dear, however are you supposed to _ravish_ me if you can't even get my dress off?"

He laughed. "'Ravish'? That's a new one from you."

With a twist, she freed her hands, and undid the garment herself, standing on tiptoe to kiss him in the process. Guiding his fingers to her, he moaned slightly on contact with her soft flesh, then _tutted_ mockingly.

"Someone's forgotten their undergarments _again_." He pinched her plump arse, making her squeak with surprise. "What did I tell you about that?"

"Last time?" She murmured in his ruined ear. "I don't recall much _telling_."

"It was warning enough." He hissed back. "Any old dog might catch you in the halls and -"

"Ravish me?"

He barked then, laughter rumbling through his chest. " _Exactly_."

Oh he'd caught her alright. In the halls, the gardens, the cellars, even once behind Balerion's monstrous skull. Sometimes _she_ caught _him_ , too.

Like now, as she tugged him over to the bed, telling him how and where to touch her, caressing him in return until his nerves sang, taking in her porcelain skin as it flushed pink with pleasure, ignoring his cock straining against his breeches. Not yet. Not yet. He hadn't even tasted her. She always waited until his fingers would not do, and then she would break their kiss to touch his ruined mouth, tongue protruding scandalously from between her swollen lips, and he nodded his assent.

How could he refuse? What with the way she opened her legs to him, unashamedly letting him look and touch and kiss her there, savoring her sweetness, her moans ringing in his ears.

"Sandor…"

There it was. There was the key. He pinned her thighs over his shoulders, feeling her muscles quiver and then tighten...and then relax in her moment of bliss. He looked up to where she lay, panting, still gently threading her hands through his hair, tugging slightly as he rose to kiss her once more. Her legs were still over his shoulders, and his movement pressed his aching member against her cunt, causing him to growl.

"Sandor." Came the demand. "Fuck me."

And just like that, he grinned his widest, feeling his heart stutter as he straightened, and her lust-glazed eyes drank him in.

 _Too good to be true._ He thought bitterly. _Too pure to last._ Still, he kissed her shapely ankle, and held her gaze as he relieved himself of his breeches, running his palms up and down her body before adjusting her over the edge of the bed. He knew she couldn't really move in this way, and as he took her she simply relaxed into his attentions, tits bouncing wonderfully as he went harder, her breathless _yesing_ fading into incoherency.

 _Perfect. Perfect. Too fucking perfect._

Then she said his name again. All but screamed it, and he near lost his mind, recovering just in time to withdraw, somehow maneuvering her to the floor, and she fucking _smiled_ as she took his cock into her mouth, sucking him until his vision blackened, and he staggered, releasing with a grunt.

The first few nights, she had been unsure about staying, had repeatedly offered to return to her little cell and that hard, narrow bed. Now she simply stretched out against his pillows, and in a movement that still baffled him, reached her arms out, drawing him into her, snuggling up against him and kissing his face. He lifted the blankets, effectively cocooning them there, feeling safer than he ever had in his life.

And then she would look up into his eyes and start to _talk_ to him. And that was just as good, just as fulfilling and pure as everything that had gone before.


	2. Caught

"Fucking starving." The low rasp bounded down the stairwell, sending a rat scurrying back into its hole. Prince Joffrey had been insufferable this evening, throwing food at his sister, refusing to eat anything set before him, and demanding that as a _prince_ he should get to do _whatever he wanted_. It was so bad that Robert even pulled out of his drunken haze long enough to give his son a thorough and very _loud_ dressing down in front of the whole court, leaving the boy in tears. Jaime had sought to calm him, but Joff had summoned his dog instead, and ordered to be escorted to his chambers.

The bloody ankle-biter had had no intention of sleeping, of course. Sandor had sat there for _hours_ playing chess with the prince, a game he was rather good at, despite not having played in years. But of course he'd had to let Joff win _every single round_ , lest he go off again. Only when Cersei arrived, rather tipsy on wine, and requested a word with the child _in private_ , was he finally released from his own private hell.

that. so here he was, half-asleep, stone-cold sober and famished, picking his way through the pitch-black castle at midnight all because Jaime had put it in the wrong hole a decade ago.

 _Fuck my fucking life._

The kitchens were deserted, of course they were. Who wanted food at this hour?

 _An overworked old dog._

The place looked eerie in the gloom, with pots and implements hanging from the ceiling, the remnants of that night's calf hanging over the ashes of the large oven set into one wall. He could probably pick at that, and there'd be bread in the pantry, and cheese… Did they lock the cellar at night?

Orange light, a gasp. "Who's that!"

Well, perhaps this venture had not been a complete waste. The Wildling girl stood in the doorway, lamp in one hand, dagger in the other. She was dressed almost like a boy; in beige cotton breeches and a loose white shirt, her feet bare on the cold floor, and her hair loose and disheveled, as one roused in the middle of the night by the snufflings of a stray dog.

She relaxed at the sight of him. The only person he'd even seen _relax_ in his presence. "...Hound?"

"Uh…" It had always sounded like such a harsh title. When he'd first used it to scare Jaime's new squire, when people had started to whisper it behind his back, when they'd all begun to bark it at him in place of his own name. She made it sound _nice_ , with her soft voice and that lilting accent. "I...erm…"

She stepped forward, a smile on her lips, the little halo of light encapsulating them. "Looking for food?"

Shutting his stupid stammering mouth, he nodded.

"Right, I'll take care of you." She held out the lamp and he took it without thinking. Only when she strode past did his eyes fall to the flickering flame. Heart stopping in his chest, he near dropped the damn thing before slamming it down on a nearby table. She turned at the sound. "Could you give me some light, please?"

He noted the sconces on the walls, and the few stunted candles stuck to the surfaces. Surely she didn't mean for him to…? He glanced over to where she was busying herself slicing pieces off the carcass in the hearth. She had already lit the candles on the counter. When had she done that? How long had he been fussing about this cursed lamp?

Covering his hand with the sleeve of his tunic, he lifted it. Then he remembered how easily cloth could catch and immediately switched hands. She wouldn't need all of the sconces. Of course not. Just the ones where she was working, and there were only six. Moving slowly, steadily, he went from one to the other, using the tiny flame to start a piece of flint before panickedly tossing it on the coals. She was behind him now, peeling potatoes and a carrot and throwing the pieces into a pot. He was not much fond of carrots. He said nothing, but leaned against the counter, bumping his head ever so slightly on a cupboard in the process. She did not seem to mind him there. Hardly seemed to notice him, in fact.

She was taller than he had thought. Not as tall as he, of course, but she was, as his mother used to say, 'man-high'. Where most women tended to lose their figure to such a physique, however, she most certainly was _not_ lacking in anything.

She shifted, making him jump a mile, but only lifted one foot to scratch the other. Was she not cold like that? She was making _him_ shiver, with nothing covering her toes like that. The breeches did not reach down all the way either, but stopped a few inches above the ankle…

He narrowed his eyes. There. On her right ankle. Was that dirt? He tilted ever so carefully to look. No. It was a mark. A little symbol etched into her skin with blue ink. Someone once told him the Dothraki did such things. Or had it been the Qartheen? One or the other. Had she been part of a Khalasar? Had she been taken by one? Had she-

"Oh, I forgot!" She wheeled around and he snapped up like a whip, cracking his head on the cupboard. "Oh… Are you alright?"

" _Fine."_ He mumbled.

"I bet you do that a lot, huh?"

"...aye."

She smiled. "My brother's a good bit bigger than you. Had a head full of lumps by the time he was twenty."

He imagined a brother the size of Gregor and quaked.

"You'll really be needing that wine now, eh?" A wink. _A wink_. "Watch that pot, will you? Mind it doesn't boil over."

He positively glowered at it. Was this what he had to go through to get his dick wet? He watched the pot with baited breath until she returned, kicking the barred door to the cellar open as she struggled with a flagon and a rather large cheese plate. All of these she set on one of the long tables by the far wall before coming over to retrieve two cups.

 _Two_? Did she mean to drink with him? Pouring out two drinks, he thought she was only returning to check the vegetables when she closed one slender hand around his wrist, put the other to his back, and brought him over to his seat.

"Sauce?"

" _What_?"

She frowned. "Do you…" A pouring motion. She thought she had used the wrong word, and he inwardly kicked himself. "For on your food...um...we… I can give you cranberry or… I think the other one is apple?"

He quickly reined his mind away from the hundred other directions whence it had gone. "Oh...ah. I like cranberries."

His eyes snapped shut of their own accord. ' _I like cranberries'? You fucking dunce._ When he opened them again, she was plating his food, having either not caught or not minded his slip. He took a gulp of wine.

She had heated the meat along with the sauce, and when it landed in front of him his stomach gave an almighty _roar_. In spite of his wish to the gods, she heard, and giggled.

"You should have told me to hurry up."

Mortified, he turned his attention to his plate, not looking up when she slipped into the seat opposite. For the longest while, he shoveled food into his face while she delicately picked at the platter between them. Maybe she watched him, maybe she simply ate. He did not look up to check. As soon as his cup was empty she took up the flagon and filled it again, topping her own up in the process. That caught his eye of course, and he found her observing him with keen interest. He looked right back, and she smiled _again_.

"How do you like it?"

 _The food. She means the food._ "It's fine, thank you."

A pout. Joff liked to pout. Sandor had always thought it an impudent gesture. On her it seemed - if he allowed his imagination to get the better of him - _playful_. "'Fine'?"

Realizing how it must have sounded, he blundered his way through possibly the first compliment of his life. "I mean...it's, uh...I like what you've done with the...erm…potatoes."

A snigger this time. "Don't worry. I know it's nothing special."

Unsure what to say next, he distracted himself by meticulously spreading cranberry sauce on a slice of white bread, covering the whole thing with one of the milder cheeses before chomping into it. Across the table, she tilted her head.

"Is that...good?"

He paused, considering. It was something he liked to do, but others - including Jaime - thought abhorrent. "Yes."

At once she stood up and, plucking the entire jar of sauce up from the counter, proceeded to slather it over her bread, just as he had done.

"No." He interjected. "Not that cheese. That's goat's cheese."

One eyebrow shot up.

"Too sour. Use this."

Placing the indicated slice on her bread, she gingerly took a bite. The expression she made at this alone made his whole evening better.

"No?"

She pressed a knuckle against her mouth. "It's not... _bad…"_

"Could've fooled me."

"It's just…" She struggled to swallow it. "The texture."

He chortled, Jaime had made similar such comments. Far less eloquently. To her credit, she took another bite. "You don't have to keep eating it."

"I want to be sure I don't -" Her face scrunched up. Somehow, she remained stunning. The bread was hastily cast aside. "I'm sorry, I don't."

He topped up her wine, which she gulped with thanks. The wench then looked him straight in the eye and said: "You know, I don't believe I have ever seen you smile."

He immediately wiped the stupid grin off his face. "Don't often find reason to."

She smirked as the cup rose once more to her lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

His eyes scanned her. Was she _mocking_ him? Or _flirting_ with him? He hadn't enough experience of the latter to know.

As he judged her, she propped her chin on her hand, leaning over the table in a away that caused the tops of her breasts to become visible beyond the collar of her shirt. He did not believe she was wearing anything underneath.

 _Flirting_?

"So why do they call you The Hound, anyway?"

Flirting. Fuck, what was he supposed to do now?

"I...uh…" He cleared his throat. "Because I never let my prey escape."

She was toying with her hair now. _Seven hells_ it looked so soft. "Prey?"

Why on earth had he said that? Who in the Seven shagging Kingdoms used the word _prey_ in casual conversation?

A dainty little finger on the rim of her cup, nonchalantly tracing the edge. "So if I were to get on the wrong side of you… You'd hunt me down?"

"Um." What was he supposed to say?

Both palms flat on the table now, and she visibly shifted forward.

"You know, I'm a hunter, too." She said. "So where does that put you?"

Good question. He was getting more lost by the second, not knowing if he wanted to be caught or rescued.

Unfortunately, fate chose for him, and he saw his captor huff grumpily as the kitchen door creaked open.

"Hello, Margaret. I take it you know Lord Clegane?"


	3. The kerchief

Dreams rarely found Sandor Clegane. Perhaps, in the depths of sleep, phantasms or one sort or another came to him, but they rarely existed beyond waking. Lately, however, he had been plagued by them.

It was all that damned Wildling's fault. The night after he had first seen and heard her, his slumber had been filled with visions. So much so that he woke before first light and, splashing some cold water on his face, went to aimlessly wander the halls of the Keep.

Again and again, they had crossed paths, and she continued to torment him with her smiles and hellos. And those looks he could not fathom. Soon enough she had him gaping after her, eyes dragged from his duty by a glimpse of auburn waves, ears piqued at the ringing of her laughter in the courtyard below.

Hand on the balustrade, half-concealed by a pillar, he peeked down. There she was, crouched next to one of the young servants - a girl no more than twelve -, who giggled as she teased one of the stable cats with a loose bristle from her broom. As he watched, the Wildling snapped another off and proceeded to tickle the feline's ears and snout. Much to its annoyance, and the girl's amusement. Thus provoked, the cat began to swipe and jump at their hands, only to be knocked on its back and subjected to the Wildling's scratches. Emboldened, the girl stroked its head, laughing again as it batted her hand playfully.

"Alright, Pangur." That clear voice filled his ears. "We can't play with you all day. Come on, Rosie."

Whining, the girl followed, only for both of them to be halted by a pining, mewling cat who blocked their path and sought to pull at their skirts with its sharp claws.

 _Good luck getting rid of that fucking vermin_. He chuckled to himself, then noted the guards at the other end of the way and collected himself. Again, the girl laughed, this time as the Wildling proceeded to cradle the creature in her arms and sing it what sounded like a lullaby. The fool of a predator did not seem to mind, but laid back, eyeing her as he seemed to enjoy his serenade. The girl tittered ever louder, especially when he refused to be put down. With a sigh of resignation, the Wildling carried the blasted thing away, repeating the simple tune until it faded away.

It was not until she was gone that the Hound became aware of his own predicament. Now as he stepped away from his vantage point, he grimaced as he felt his half-hard cock press against his codpiece.

"Of all the days to wear this blasted thing." He hissed to himself, struggling to move. They would be expecting him at court any minute now, and he could scarcely walk.

There was only one thing for it. There was a privy in the western corner and he shuffled over to that, thanking the gods he did not even believe in when he found it completely empty. This one had stalls, too, and he hobbled over to the furthest one, undoing the confounded metal prison on the way.

Ranking this among some of the lowest points in his life, he proceeded to stroke himself then and there, in the midst of the piss and shit and whatever else might be decorating the walls and floor, adding his own mystery stain to the ones he was trying to ignore.

 _Close your eyes, idiot. And your nose at that._ Better. But yet again, there she was, tits straining against that peasant dress that was just a bit too small, her hips swaying enticingly as she walked in front of him, those long legs stretched before her as she sat on a bench in the gardens, smooth skin, silky hair, blue eyes smiling up at him as he fucked -

"Oh _fuck_." He gasped, releasing his seed into the latrine as best he could. Swearing, he shook out the last few drops and tucked himself away.

Unsurprisingly, court passed in the usual mundane rigmarole of complaining peasants, demanding nobles, and stuck-up knights. King Robert sat atop the Iron Throne, slowly drinking himself into a stupor, not even feigning concern for his subjects and more often than not allowing his Hand or his queen to make his decisions for him. Sandor stood at his usual place at the back of the dais, the very embodiment of vigilance in his snarling helm, gradually falling asleep on his feet.

A shout snapped him out of his daydreams, followed by a string of what had to be curses. A man was thrown at the foot of the steps, dressed in rags and sporting a bloodied, purple face. One eye was swollen shut, and he appeared to have recently lost a tooth, as he kept tonguing the hole where it had once stood. His hair was a tangled mess of sandy curls, and he was sweating profusely in the midday heat.

Sandor scowled down at him. Another fucking Wildling. The man did not catch his look, however, for he was too busy babbling up at the king and queen.

"King… I Garoyn... _cedh i..._ I."

Robert belched loudly. Cersei sighed.

"Who the fuck is this bumbling idiot!"

One of the guards explained: "He has been accused of theft by several businesses, Your Grace, and resisted arrest, injuring two -"

"No! No, King!" The man grovelled on the marble steps, reaching out imploringly. "I no fight! I- _nach_ \- I hit…"

Robert stared down at him blankly. "I haven't a notion what you're saying, man."

The prisoner slumped defeatedly. It was clear he understood Westerosi well enough, but had little experience speaking it.

From across the way, a high voice offered: "He is one of the Free Folk, Your Grace. One whom, as is plain, has not had much instruction in the Southern tongue."

Lord Varys materialised before the king, smiling his customary knowing smile.

"Well we can't help him if we can't understand him." Lord Arryn remarked. "And we can't just allow him to be hanged without being given a chance to defend himself."

Cersei let out a little _hmph_ , as though she would be more than happy to see the man hang.

On the floor, however, the Wildling had understood enough of Arryn's words to become panicked, and let out another barrage of gibberish.

" _Nach fé!_ Please, no! Not hanged! _Agha shán! Li Dayi-"_

"Shut the fuck up!" Ever a man of the people, Robert sought to calm him.

"If I may, Your Grace." Varys sang. "I believe there is a Wildling woman in your employ. I have seen her about the kitchens."

 _What are you looking at, you little shit._ Those beady eyes had flickered over to him for only a fraction of a second, but Sandor had caught it. What had he seen? What did he know?

A servant boy was sent to fetch her, and before Sandor could fully prepare himself she appeared, trailing hesitantly after the lad. Did she fear for her life? It did not show. She was unsure, that much was certain, but a subtle curiosity burned in her eyes.

Though she _did_ falter when brought before the throne, glancing around at the spectators gathered in the wings.

 _Not fond of crowds?_

He did not like the way the prisoner was looking at her. At first his face only showed surprise, but now there was something else there. Sandor rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Rowan was no fool, and once she noticed the man she placed herself on the second step, firmly between him and the royal couple. She did not trust this stranger, either.

It was Arryn that spoke to her: "What is your name, my lady?"

Sandor _huffed_.

 _My lady._

"Rowan."

Her voice barely reached him.

"Lady Rowan, can you understand this man?"

She eyed the Wildling for a moment before speaking: " _Cé terra_?"

The man's smile did not reach his eyes. " _Li Garoyn, ba. Gul a ríat-"_

"He speaks a western dialect, my lord. But I can understand him well enough."

There. The ghost of anger flitting across his bloodied face.

"What did he say to you just now?" Arryn quizzed.

"He only told me his name."

"Ask him what he's doing in King's Landing."

" _Qyer déna terr nigh balyí sho?"_

It was a sweet, singsong-like language, and the way she spoke it had a soothing effect on him. Her counterpart, on the other hand, sounded clunky and gravelly, words running together arhythmically.

" _Li bannad. Unsó fich has."_

"He says he's a wanderer. He just wanted to see the city."

It went on like that: Arryn slowly probing until he got to the matter at hand. By which time it was plain that the man was growing increasingly frustrated. With a hint of desperation. He was guilty, the Hound knew it. Rowan knew it. Arryn only had to keep pressing.

Another bumbling barrage of the northern tongue, louder than last.

"What was that?" Arryn demanded.

"He says you're wasting both his time and yours, and… Well… The rest was mostly profanity."

"Tell him we will not tolerate such talk in the presence of the king!"

" _Ardrí i mai a rá nach hé sho."_

" _Kyunta! Ma a elleo! Li-"_

" _Terr a ma a elleo!"_ As he watched, her hand slipped behind her back. At first he thought she was merely scratching at the hem of her skirt, before the glint of steel. Now he saw that she grasped the handle of a knife.

Arryn saw it, too and thumbed his pommel.

" _Li lún a adda!"_ The man growled. " _Himí li_!"

" _Nach."_

He moved like lightning. Sandor hardly blinked and he was at the steps. Making to leap up them at Arryn. If not for Rowan, he might have caught him. She lunged, knife in hand, and brought him down. The snake twisted, however, and she hit the stairs, pinned under him, letting out a yelp. When the man punched her square in the face, she _snarled_ and elbowed him in the head, knocking him aside. Then Arryn was over him, and the Kingsguard all around, dragging him to his feet and hauling him away as others saw the king and queen out safely. The courtiers were shooed away like rats.

He stood next to Rowan as she cupped her nose, blood seeping through her fingers. He did not recall walking over, but here he was, listening as Arryn sang her praises. She tried to smile, she really did, but the pain in her nose and blood in her mouth was clearly at the fore of her thoughts, and the Hand quickly excused himself.

"You have bad a habit of getting on the wrong side of flying fists." He remarked, and she laughed. He had made her laugh.

"Seems so." She mumbled, removing her hand. He winced. Her palm was red.

"Here." He grunted, shoving a handkerchief into it.

"Oh. Thank you."

She seemed off. Was she dazed?

"You don't…" He cleared his throat. "Don't feel ill, do you?"

She shook her head.

"Anything broken?"

 _Shake._

What was he doing, standing here like an idiot? Cersei would be looking for him…

Yet there he stood, letting the silence stretch out as she tried to staunch the flow of blood.

He cleared his throat again. "You should go to the maester."

She nodded this time.

"Come on."

He walked her as far as the courtyard. The same one he had spied her in only a few hours ago. The same place where she'd made him.

He stopped dead. The kerchief. He'd wiped his hand in the kerchief. She still had it pressed to her nose. Seven Hells it probably smelled like -

 _Her nose is bleeding. She can't smell a thing beyond that._

He had to admit, he found some sort of perverse pleasure in thinking about her rubbing her nose in his stuff.

"Hound?"

His cheeks were burning. He, _Sandor Clegane,_ was blushing. With a _clang_ , he closed the Hound's mouth and turned to find her lingering at his elbow.

"The maester is that way." He rasped, pointing. She followed his gesture and then blinked up at him, puzzled by his attitude. "What, you expect me to escort you all the way?"

Brows furrowed, she edged away, then seemed to remember his handkerchief, and proffered the bloody rag silently.

"Keep it." He grumbled, storming off.

Weeks passed in which they did not speak. In fact, for almost a fortnight she scarce looked his way. He knew he deserved it, what with the childish way he had dismissed her that day. A better man might have tried to find her, to apologize, laying his feelings down before her so as to rationalize his foolishness. But he was Sandor Clegane.

He still watched, hiding like a coward in the shadows, or behind the Hound's visage. He still waited for her to smile at him.

No use. In an instant he had completely alienated the one person who could bear to look at him.

He did not dare visit the kitchens. The one thing he did not need was for her to take one glance at him and walk away, After a time he began to avoid the mess hall, so that he had only banquets and the odd convergence of their paths. He took his meals alone more and more frequently, until they came without asking.

This time, it was Rowan's friend who brought it, tiptoeing carefully across the floor as he struggled with his breastplate. They both said nothing, and she darted out before he even turned around. Did she know? Of course she did. He knew how women talked. And why else would she run away without so much as an attempt at her usual, quavering greetings.

Armour off, he finally sank down into his chair, empty stomach sounding its sonorous demands

It was only then that he noticed it.

A little square box of polished wood, with a ribbon clumsily tied around it. He scowled. What on earth? Opening it, he found a brand new kerchief; stark white and folded neatly so as to display the sigil of House Clegane, stitched in fine detail into one corner.

Why had she done this? Where had she gotten it? _How much had it cost?_

The next day he sought her out, forgetting his duties a while to walk and length and breadth of the Red Keep and its grounds, working up a sweat in the process. It took him an age to spot her, until a glimpse of red hair had him half-running through the rose garden.

When his brutish hand clamped around her arm, she startled and immediately turned on him, a fist raised high. He laughed in spite of himself, throwing his hands up in surrender. Typical Wildling.

"You!" She exclaimed, then blushed, remembering her niceties. "I mean...You startled me, my lord."

 _My lord_. A dagger through the heart would have felt nicer.

"Not a lord, remember?" He rasped back, trying to smile.

Her eyes lit up, though the fire needed coaxing. "A Hound, then. I apologise."

At least she was looking at him now. And she made no move to put any distance between them. Now...what had he meant to say?

When he produced the handkerchief from his pocket, her cheeks reddened more. The colour even spread to her chest, which he appreciated.

"I'll have to thank Suzana." Was her only remark.

 _Me too_. "What is the meaning of this?"

She blinked, and her expression faltered. Oh, he had said that wrong.

"I mean...it's…" He stammered.

"Do you like it?"

"...yes."

That smile. He could die for that smile. "I'm glad. I was worried about the crest."

"You did this?"

A fit of sweet laughter met that. "No, no! I can hardly hold a needle."

"Then," he thumbed the little yellow shield. "Who did this?"

"Margaret's brother-in-law sells such things."

"You…" She had commissioned it. Had gone and spent her own money on it. "How much did this _cost?_ "

"You like it?"

"I told you: yes."

"That's all that matters."

"You...I…" He tried to give it to her. "Why did you not simply wash the other one?"

"I tried. Twice. It turned orange."

He huffed, lost for words. Even more so when her soft hand closed around his, nudging the piece of cloth toward him.

"Keep it." she urged. "I want you to have it."

 _I could kiss her_. She was so close, he could feel her warmth, her little hand squeezing his, holding it to his chest. She might even let him. Might even kiss him back…

 _Who are you fooling, you ugly old dog._

And then he was backing away, stuffing the damned thing back into his pocket.

"Thank you." The words sounded foreign, coming from his filthy mouth, but she grinned when he said them. "I...appreciate it."


	4. Mending

Davos and Thoros were none too pleased with how he'd abandoned them. Somehow, as he pulled on the furs Tormund had happily given him off a dead comrade, Sandor could not find the will to care. His head was full of other, far greater concerns than the fate of those two imbeciles.

Qerhan stood at the far end of the hall, conversing with her brother and two others. She forced a smile when their eyes met, but that was all. He shivered. She had said she still loved him, and when he held her, she squeezed him back, yet Sandor could see through her guise. Could see the pain in her face when she looked at him. It had been there hundredfold when he had tried to push things further in the warden's office. He put a hand to her breast only for her to _recoil._

"I can't." She had said flatly. "I'm sorry, Sandor. I can't."

Of course he had let her go, let her slip out of his arms to the door. He never thought she would ever be repelled by him.

 _Can you blame her, you fool?_ He had damned himself the second he chose his own safety over her. He thought he could find repentance on the Quiet Isle, maybe even salvation.

In the shadows, what was left of the Hound chuckled to himself. _Your salvation lay across the Narrow Sea all the time you spent hiding like a coward_.

What had she thought, when he hadn't come? How much did she hear from the west? _Enough to know about the Long Winter._ She must have thought he'd abandoned her-

 _You did. Got her big with child and then fucked off to be monk._

He shook his head, remembering the breathing exercises the brothers had taught him, imagining the Hound as smoke within his chest and pushing him out. Still, vicious as he was, he was right. The image came again, of Qerhan lying at death's door, sheets soaked in blood as an infant wailed out of sight.

 _Why did you not simply stick a knife in her the day of the riots? Would have saved the both of you all of this agony-_

He buried his head in his hands. _Shut up!_

"Sandor?" Qerhan was there all of a sudden, putting her arm around him, chin on his shoulder. "What is it?"

He rubbed his temples. "Headache."

She kissed his neck. Still so good, even after all he'd put her through. "Mihaal's making stew, if you want some."

He thought of the dead man who had once worn his elkskin mantle. "What kind of stew?"

"I've learned not to ask such questions."

 _Probably best if I do, too._

"I'll get yours."

"You don't-" But she was already gone, eager to be away from him. "Have to."

She didn't have to return either, but of course she did, smiling as she set two bowls of piping hot stew on the table, each with a heel of greyish bread soaking in broth. They sat with shoulders touching as they ate, and once she jogged his elbow like she used to, snorting at the resulting stain on his face.

The more familiar she tried to act, the more he screamed inside. There was a wedge between them, and as much as he wanted to pretend this was their old room, and nothing of the past months had happened...it wasn't and it had. Pretending did nothing for either of them.

He knew she felt the same way, too. He saw the shadow in her smiles, the uncertainty. He had lost her, betrayed her, hurt her in ways that he did not know how to right. She was trying to forgive him, but what if he could not forgive himself?

"Sandor?" A voice summoned from his dreams, to chase away his demons. "What's wrong?"

" _Everything_." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but he did not retract it.

At his arm, she tore her bread apart with undue aggression. It was almost powder before she whispered: "I know."

Before, he would have embraced her. Maybe kissed her cheek. Too bad this was now. Instead he sat there, with only her shoulder for warmth.

"I want to know why." She hissed. "Not here. I want you to tell me everything."

A nod was all he could manage. Inside, guilt gnawed at him.

"And I'll tell you my side, too."

He didn't deserve that, wanted to say as much to her. It seemed he could not utter a sound, not even to say that much. He just idly scraped the side of his empty bowl with his spoon.

Her brother and Tormund sat a few tables away, apparently in conversation. Yet their eyes darted so frequently their way that he knew they were watching.

 _Probably ready to skin me alive as soon as Qerhan gives the signal._

Presently, Shoni turned, and held his gaze. The man smiled, but it was false. It spoke volumes.

 _Hurt her again, Sandor Clegane, and you'll regret it._

Qerhan stood suddenly, reaching a gloved hand out to him.

"I want to walk."

So they walked. And walked and walked. From the yard to the top of the Wall. The silence was peppered with her soft voice as she showed him this and that, sometimes speaking of one incident or another. He did not respond. He only wanted to listen.

There were outlook points at regular intervals along the precipice, looking both north and south. She brought him to the furthest one, so they could look out over the sea as well. When she gazed east, he knew what she was searching for. And when she turned into him he knew she could not see it. When she kissed him he stiffened at one, thinking to pull away. Holding him fast, she pressed her lips to his until his will dissolved, arms coiling possessively about her waist, wondering that she still managed to smell of roses and taste as sweet as ever, even up here at the edge of the world.

Of course a shagging Stark would be the one to drag them north. And of course Qerhan insisted on joining their expedition. Sandor did not doubt that she could look after herself - the gods knew she'd been doing so before he darkened her doorstep - but this was different. This was a suicide mission.

So he kept her close, hounding her every waking minute, never letting her out of his sight. Always at her back, or, as she preferred, her side. It was too cold. Was she cold? He put an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against his warmth. To his delight, she hugged him back, heating her hands by rubbing them against his sides. When she tripped he picked her right back up, fussing over the ice now dusting her clothes. She huffed indignantly and told him to worry about himself.

Cold. Too cold. He tucked her against him at night, keeping his back against the wind. He had to keep her safe even when -

" _Fucking hell_ can I piss alone!" She snapped.

"I uh." He floundered. "I just wanted to make sure…"

"I'm not going to freeze to death in the half minute it'll take me to relieve myself, Sandor!" She pushed him back into the cave. "Now _sit_."

Across the fire, Thoros sniggered. "You two were made for each other."

"Fuck off, you bald cunt!" He growled, dropping down a safe distance from the flames.

The priest's expression straightened. "I mean it."

In spite of her irritation, she snuggled into him that night, covering his face with kisses, sidling closer, even teasing-

"Stop that." He rasped, pulling her hand away from his crotch.

"Please."

"You didn't want it before."

"I do now."

"It's freezing cold."

"It'll keep us warm."

"Go to sleep."

Grumbling, she rolled away, but did not resist when he pressed up against her, one arm fast against her waist, the other cushioning her head. He listened to her breathing til she fell asleep.

They had survived. Not everyone had. It had been a frantic, terrifying ordeal, but they'd come out the other end intact. More than that: _together_. Sandor had thought it might take years for him to want him again, but after he had explained the business with the Stark bitch, and everything that came after, she thawed.

And then she broke.

It happened so suddenly that he had no time to prepare. Still, he should have known that night she'd first taken him to bed, and she had wept. He offered to stop, but she refused, begging him to take her. He had shed tears then, too. But he had not stopped. And they had both enjoyed it in the end.

In the dead of night, the boards creaked. Sandor Clegane snapped awake, listening intently, reaching a hand out to his wife.

She was not there.

A sniff, muffled but distinct.

"Qerhan?"

No answer. Now he _knew_ something was wrong. He rolled to find her curled up by the bed, head in her arms. As he stroked her smooth hair, another sob burst out of her.

"Come here." He ordered, ignoring her mewl of protest, dragging her bodily into the bed. She hid against his breast as she only did when truly miserable. "What?"

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Well you did. Now: what?"

"I dreamt of her."

He kissed her crown. "Oh?"

"I miss her."

"I know."

Unbidden, she told him of her, painting a picture so vivid that his heart cracked, and a lump rose in his throat.

 _She likes grapes, but not beans._

 _She's scared of moths._

 _Her favourite toy is the mouse Aunt Givre bought._

 _She loves Aunt Givre._

" _Sandor?"_ An urgent whisper, thickened with emotion. "Will she think Givre is her-"

"No."

"But I left when-"

"Believe me, Qerhan. She could never forget you."


	5. Gentle

_(Hello all! Sorry for the delay; I was moving countries!)_

 _Crunch_. His lance impaled one of the straw men through the gut, causing it to sway where it stood. Sandor checked his horse, retrieving his weapon before taking off down the field at the next target. So intent was he on his goal and the thundering of Duncan's hooves that he failed to see Meryn Trant coming in from the right. Without warning, the knight's lance flew mere inches from his steed's nose, hitting the dummy in the hip.

" _The fuck you playing at, Trant!_ " Came the bellow, spooking his own damn horse.

"Didn't see you there." A sneer, and the git put a boot to the straw man at he yanked the lance free.

 _Three_. That was the third time that cocksucker had crossed him in one afternoon, leaving the Hound fit to kill. He urged Duncan after him.

"Like shit, you didn't see me!"

"You said it, not me." Trant remarked over his shoulder. Somewhere behind him, Boros sniggered.

"Oi!" Catching up, he yanked the cunt's cloak. Meryn jerked back in his saddle and almost fell, cursing.

"Take your filthy fucking paws off me!"

" _Apologize._ "

"My arse I will!"

"I won't ask again."

Ser Meryn swiped his hand away. "Who are _you_ to give _me_ orders! Remember your place, Dog!"

"I'm the one who's about to put a lance through you."

"Lay off it, Hound!" Boros chimed in, appearing at his other side. "You can't take the both of us,"

He snorted. "Like hell I can't."

"Clegane." It was Ser Barristan's turn to comment. "Leave him."

Growling, Sandor released Trant, watching him trot off with Boros in tow to the far end of the field. Selmy rode up beside him.

"They're not worth it."

"Not worth what?" He rasped. "Not worth killing? Everyone's worth killing."

"You and I both know the consequences of killing such men far outweigh the benefits."

Sticking his lance into the ground, he adjusted his stirrups. Damned boy had put them too short again. Head down and face concealed, he conceded: "Fine."

"Hm." Selmy agreed. "And stop sticking your elbow out every time you make a thrust."

He nodded openly at this. Advice from Ser Barristan was not to be snubbed.

"Will do."

 _Five times_.

Ser Meryn had tried to trip his horse shortly after his chat with Selmy, and then 'accidentally' bonked him on the head messing with his lance.

In spite of the elder knight's words, in Sandor's mind the idea of spilling the pig's blood was becoming ever more appealing. As he handed the last plate of armour to the squire Jaime had leant him, he decided he needed to busy his hands for a while, and set about cleaning and polishing his saddle. There were servants around to do such things, but Sandor found the task somewhat relaxing, so he stood there well after his training, scrubbing grime from the seams in the soft leather.

 _Fucking Boros. Fucking Trant_. He channeled his agitation into elbow grease, chipping at the dried mud caught in the foot of his stirrup. Trant in particular was a swine. He thought of Rowan that evening, with her cheek blue and swollen. _I'll kill him._ He turned the seat down and worked at the underside. She had been frightened when he tried to set it. Had looked on the verge of tears with the pain. _Arrogant prick_. He heaved the thing over and dipped a clean cloth into a tin of black polish. The sharp odour assailed his nostrils. He hated the smell of polish.

Another saddle hit the ground at his feet. Trant's. He knew by the fancy gold stitching on the flaps, and the plated stirrup irons.

"Another one for you, boy."

Oh, he was really _trying_ , wasn't he? Sandor flattened his own flaps out and treated them to a generous coating of polish.

"Didn't you hear me?"

He set his jaw, thinking of Selmy. _Not worth it. Not worth it._

"Hey! As deaf as you are ugly, is it?"

This time, Ser Meryn emphasized his remark with a shove.

 _Worth it_.

His elbow got the shit right in the face with a satisfying _crack._ The puffed up knight staggered back, clutching at his cheek as blood dribbled from his mouth.

 _For her_.

The Hound's fist launched at that smug face. This time the cunt was ready, and twisted his hand away. Sandor bared his teeth, snarling, letting the rage burn through him. When Trant looked in his eyes, he quailed.

But he had chosen his fate, hadn't he? Out of nowhere, a knife flashed in the Hound's hand. Meryn moved only just in time for it to leave a scratch across his breastplate, rather than sink into the soft flesh of his underarm.

"Are you fucking _mad_?" The coward yelped, staring wide-eyed at the blade.

"Yes." The Hound barked back, straining as Trant caught hold of both his wrists. "And I'm going to _fucking gut you._ "

Fear. Real, unchecked fear now in those beady little eyes. The Hound laughed, bringing his knee up into his opponent's crotch. He hit metal with a jarring pain, but he way beyond that now, veins singing with the thrill of the hunt. The other man wheezed and retreated, narrowly avoiding Sandor's blade as it cut the air in front of his face.

" _The fuck's wrong with you, Clegane?_ "

He laughed. _Plenty_.

Trant was big and mean, more than a match for him in strength. Not in speed. When he leaped at him, he barely found the voice to cry out. Still, he caught yet another attack, attempting to turn the knife against Sandor who, still grinning, blocked it with his own arm. Blood spattered down onto that crooked nose, those tiny black eyes, and that flaccid mouth - no longer smirking or sniggering.

" _Get the fuck off me!_ "

Again, the Hound cackled, wrenching his hand free. Trant floundered, seeking to seize it again, but was hindered by Sandor's bleeding - and _ever so slippery_ appendage. Death had found him and there was no escape.

Except a boot to the ribs, administered by Boros. Sandor's breath was forced out of him with a sharp _oof._ He made to face the newcomer, but hands were already on him, at first several, and then only Ser Barristan's.

"Enough, lad." The old man breathed, eyes fixed on Trant, who was bleeding out around the knife embedded in his thigh. "That's more than enough."

Sandor shrugged him off and stalked away.

He found her in the passage leading to the kitchens. At first she failed to see him. Then she looked, and a hand flew to her mouth.

" _Hound_!"

"Don't make it out to be more than it is." He grumbled. "A bandage and a flagon and I'll be good as new."

Unconvinced, she grabbed his arm, tugging it straight in a movement he could only describe as 'excruciating'. Once she peeled his sodden sleeve away, she fell silent, shoving him rather roughly into the pantry and onto a squat step stool. She then sprinted away.

"Wine won't fix that." A small silver box slammed down onto the shelf beside him. "Show me."

"Not sure I trust Wildling medicine."

"Then why'd you come to me?"

"I came for a _drink_."

"Liar."

He shut his mouth, allowing her to wipe his arm with a liquid that smelled similar to his saddle polish. Stung like hell, too. She apologised when he hissed, but refused to release him. So he sat obediently, observing with unveiled amusement as she dug through the bandages and various bottles, finally extracting a needle. "You can't sew!"

"No." She agreed, threading it. "But this isn't sewing, is it?"

"I can go to the maester."

"I know that. I also know you won't." Holding his arm firmly, she pinched the wound shut. As she moved the needle into position, he shut his eyes.

 _Poke_

 _Poke poke._

Sandor allowed himself to peek. Intent on her work, she sat bent over the cut, tongue sticking out ever so slightly. The scent of roses wafted up from her thick hair.

Her stitches would make a septa weep, but they were tight and strong. She tied them off with a flourish, using the same stinking potion to clean him more thoroughly, slipping her little hand into his as she did so, not even feeling when he gave it a squeeze. Her thumb absently traced the line of his finger bone, sending a pleasant tingle down his spine.

She released him to pick a length of pristine cloth from a steel cylinder.

"I don't need-"

"Shush."

His mouth snapped shut. Anyone else might have gotten a slap for addressing him so. From her he found he rather liked it.

Again, her fingers closed around his hand, moving it this way and that as she wound the bandage around it twice, and caught it in place with a closed pin. Released while she cut the cloth, he allowed his hand to fall open upon his knee. Hoping, perhaps...dreaming.

Today she wore a sleeveless Dornish gown, and as she turned, he found himself faced with a vast expanse of white back. Before he was aware, his hand raised to touch -

She froze.

He froze.

 _Oh shit._

That little mouth quirked upwards, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear in what he might have called a coy gesture. Letting his imagination run amok, he caught a hint of pink in her cheeks.

Emboldened, he let his thumb float over the line of her spine.

She jerked.

He jumped a mile.

She _giggled_. "Sorry, I'm a bit ticklish."

He tucked this tidbit of information away in the recesses of his mind.

Defying all expectations, she faced him now, propping one elbow on his knee as she toyed with his blood stained fingers. Of a sudden, she rose up, ad placed a palm to his disfigured cheek.

He stopped breathing. Surely, she would cringe when she felt that uneven, twisted flesh. Ah, but her finger was tracing his jaw now. It would make her retch.

Yet there was nothing like revulsion in her eyes, merely intrigue. She was so close now. Did she realize? She should move away now. He was not used to this.

Just as he considered standing up and walking out, she kissed him.

 _Is she mad?_

His eyes went wide, but he found hers were shut, so he followed suit.

 _The fuck am I supposed to do?_

People did not kiss Sandor Clegane. Did they? Somewhere in his labyrinth of memories, he saw his mother leaning to touch her lips to his head. Smell of lilacs. And his sister. At times she would have pecked him on the cheek. Those damned lemon cakes she had loved so much.

 _Not like this_ , _never like this_. Everyone else, they punched him, shoved him, stabbed him, loathed him, feared him. He could not recall the last time he had been shown affection.

 _Is that what this is?_ In face of all these thoughts he remained frozen to his seat.

And then it was over, as soon as it had started. She closed the tin with a _bang._

"I'm sorry." She blurted. "I shouldn't have done that. I thought..."

He never got to learn what she'd been thinking; the slamming of the pantry door drowned it out.


End file.
